Temptation and the Artist, page 7
“Among her friends, she counts the Prince Regent and Lord Liverpool. Also, the Duke of Wellington, the Duke and Duchess of Dearham, the Marquess of Sedgewick, and the entire Gorse clan. Several earls and government ministers are not only her friends but exceedingly protective. Accordingly, were they to hear of your mean, disgusting behavior to her, you would find yourself blackballed from every club in London—and most hells, besides. You would be cut in the street. And no one, no one would ever lend you any more money. Am I making myself clear?”
“No,” Sir Oliphant snapped, refusing to give in although his stomach was roiling in dismay. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“No? Shall I discuss the little prince? Who is not, by the way. Shall I visit my brothers and see how many bruises have formed on their faces and bodies? I do have an unmannerly urge to rub this sack in their faces.” As he spoke, he threw it at his father’s head. “Although on the whole, I can’t really be bothered. So, I will tell you this once, and once only, before I inform His Grace of Dearham of your nasty tricks. You and my brothers will leave here before ten this morning, and you will go home. When I hear you are there, I will send you a steward at my own expense. If you do not allow him to do his job, then you may sink into perdition with my utter indifference.”
He rose and moved sure-footed toward the door as though he could see in the dark. Perhaps he could. Perhaps that was why, even with a sack over his head, he had defeated both his larger, more manly brothers.
The door handle rattled. “If we are ever obliged to meet again, a mere nod will do. For once in your life, Father, make the right decision.”
Cool air whispered into the room and then the door clicked shut.
Chapter Seven
Aline made her way to the rose garden at sunrise the following morning with butterflies in her stomach and her heart both eager and afraid of meeting him again. No one kissed like Stephen Dornan. No one moved her like Stephen Dornan. She had no idea where it was leading and that both frightened and excited her.
Though she had sprung out of bed, washed and dressed for the occasion with such enthusiasm that she would be well served if Stephen himself slept through their appointment. Would he have painted more last night, working on the same portrait of her that had absorbed him the evening before? Somehow that absorption, that intense focus on her had aroused a slow, blistering desire.
She saw at once that he had set up his easels and canvases in the same place as yesterday. His sketchbook lay precariously on the edge of his paint table. But of the man himself, there was no sign. She moved toward the easels, wondering where her chair was. Perhaps he had gone to fetch one. She took a moment to admire the beauty of the sunrise. Although she didn’t think it quite as spectacular as yesterday’s, she gazed with new appreciation at its pinks and golds.
Inevitable, the easels were covered. She gazed, tempted, at the sketchbook. If she were just to pick it up and see where it opened, surely that would not be spying on unfinished work? In truth, she didn’t want to spy on how he saw her. In fact, she thought she was rather afraid of that. She just wanted to look at his work, as though through studying it, she could learn more of the man.
Still, seeing no sign of his approach, she stooped and picked up the sketchbook. Holding the spine in one hand, she let it flop open. The pages revealed to her were around the middle of the book, some time before they had met at Maida. And yet, the full-page faces looking back at her were her. One with a teasing smile, the other contemplative, almost sad. Almost exactly as she had felt when she realized she no longer wanted Johnny Dearham. And wanting nobody had made her sad.
Wanting nobody and yet noticing everything about Stephen Dornan. She closed the book and replaced it on his table before wandering around the empty, scented garden. And then she saw him in his painting clothes, snipping roses from their stems at apparent random. Over his arm, he carried a shawl.
He glanced over and lifted his hand before striding over to meet her. “Good morning! I went over to ask Bill Renwick if I could cut some of these roses because yesterday’s painting wasn’t quite working. I wondered if you would hold these, and pretend to pick some more? It would provide context for your presence. And we can still use yesterday’s sunrise.”
So, straight to business. “Where do you want me?” This time, the words spilled out without intent, and to her surprise, she actually blushed.
But he paused, his gaze flying to hers as he handed over the shawl to protect her arm from the thorn. He didn’t blink. “Anywhere,” he said softly. “God help me.”
Her blush deepened, flooding her entire body.
But as if he hadn’t spoken, he pointed to the tall rose bushes behind her. “Can you reach up for one of those roses while holding the others? I’m afraid your arm will tire, but we’ll do it in spells. Tell me when it hurts. Glance back at me over your shoulder…”
*
At a quarter before ten, Sir Oliphant stepped down from the hotel toward his waiting coach—a ramshackle old thing that should have been replaced years ago. He all but shoved his sullen sons inside, for Gordon’s face was bruised where Stephen had kicked him, and Clive sported a bandage around his head, having landed on it, apparently, when his little brother threw him on the floor.
Their pathetic blundering had led to this humiliating departure, and he was not in charity with either of them. Neither, of course, was he in charity with his youngest, who, despite agreeing to send a steward to sort out their estate problems, had spoken to his father quite without respect, ordering him around as though he were an ill-behaved stable boy rather than a baronet.
That rankled. It rankled so much that Sir Oliphant had told the hotel clerk that Stephen would pay the shot for the entire family. A petty but necessary revenge since none of them but Stephen had the wherewithal to pay such extortionate charges. The hotel was not even in town.
Before he followed his sons into the coach, he glanced to the right, toward the pleasure gardens which were quiet at this hour, although the staff were busy. He looked the other way and glimpsed a couple arm in arm, walking along the grass at the side of the drive that led to the main road to London. They paused, the man pointing around him, perhaps to the new canal or the view of the city.
Sir Oliphant knew another surge of resentment, for the man was his son, and the woman with him was Princess Hagerin.
“Your pardon, sir,” interrupted a polite voice, and Sir Oliphant turned to see a distinguished man of about his own age touching the brim of his hat. “Might I ask if you are acquainted with that lady?”
Old habits died hard, and it took an effort of will not to slander her just to spite his son. However, bearing in mind her powerful connections, he held his peace. Besides, the fellow addressing him sounded French. Sir Oliphant had never cared for the French—or for anyone really who was not English. He preferred to forget that he himself had been named for a Scotsman, as had one of his sons, thanks to a drunken promise he had apparently made to his wife.
“I have met her,” Sir Oliphant replied briefly. “I am more acquainted with her companion.”
“Who is…?”
This was bordering on rudeness, but the Frenchman’s blatant curiosity aroused Sir Oliphant’s. “My son,” he replied mildly. “Mr. Dornan.”
The Frenchman’s eyes remained civil and friendly, but they were remarkably shrewd. “Forgive me, sir, but I think you do not approve of your son’s…friendship with Madame la Princesse.”
“Not for me to say,” Sir Oliphant muttered. He would have turned away, but the Frenchman spoke again, this time offering his hand.
“I hope you will also forgive my vulgar curiosity. Allow me to explain. My name is Monteigne, Philippe de Monteigne. This is my son, Charles de Monteigne. My brother’s son had the honor to be married to the princess.”
“The child is not a prince,” Sir Oliphant muttered sardonically, as he reluctantly shook the hand of his new friend. He nodded curtly to the younger man, who appeared happy enough to wait in the background.
“Not to the world, sir, but to me, he is as good as a prince. He is, in effect, the head of our family, and the heir to the land Charles and I manage for him.”
“Good for him,” Sir Oliphant replied, tiring of the pointless conversation. “If you will excuse—”
“Your son is, no doubt, a most estimable young man,” Monteigne interrupted.
A derisive snort came from inside the coach.
“But,” Monteigne continued, “my concern is for the head of my family. I cannot have her dragging the boy around Europe and keeping him from us. A boy needs his male relatives.”
In other words, he wanted control of the boy to be sure of his own position when the child came of age. Sir Oliphant had no quarrel with that—or much interest in it either.
“My question, sir, is this. From your observation, is the boy safe? Well-guarded?”
Sir Oliphant, his boot already on the coach step, lowered his foot to the ground and, scenting an opportunity for mischief, led his new friend away from the people coming in and out of the hotel.
“It is interesting you mention that. The boy has a tutor built like the side of a house and there are two footmen almost as large. While I love my son, I cannot pretend he is an eligible partner for a princess, or anyone related to a distinguished family such as yours. My son is a so-called artist, a ne’er-do-well, a rake of little conscience. He was even in Europe—France itself, I hear—during the late wars, and that is not something his own people would approve of.”
Sir Oliphant smiled and managed a few more barbs against his son, all but chortling over his own cleverness in getting around Stephen’s conditions by slandering, not the princess, but Stephen himself. “By all means, take her and the boy out of his influence,” he finished nobly. “As a caring father, I would be grateful. Good day, sir.”
With that, he tipped his hat and climbed into the coach. He waited until the coach moved away before he broke into delighted laughter.
*
Aline and Stephen Dornan spent large parts of the day together. After the morning sitting in the rose garden, he joined her and Basil for breakfast. Basil seemed pleased with the company, chattering away about what he was learning with Mr. Flowers, the pleasure garden, ices, and the joys of toy soldiers.
Stephen didn’t tease him or talk down to him in that jovial way adults tended to. Instead, he spoke to him much as he did everyone else, with serious interest, leavened by breathtaking flashes of humor that Basil shared.
“Would you look at my drawings?” Basil asked once. “Mama and Mr. Flowers say they’re good, but I’m not sure Mr. Flowers knows as much about art as Latin grammar and mathematics.”
“I would love to see them,” Stephen said at once, but Mr. Flowers had just been admitted, and it was time for lessons. “Perhaps at lunchtime?”
Aline thought Stephen would bolt off to work on his paintings, but he suggested a walk, and she was glad to join him. The odd breathlessness she always felt around him had become a familiar, pleasurable background to their growing closeness. She had no idea where this strange relationship was going, if it would end with her portraits. But for the moment, she was happy to grasp it with both hands.
Returning from their walk in the woods—he behaved like a perfect gentleman throughout—he spoke briefly to the hotel doorman.
Rejoining her, he said, “My father and brothers have departed the hotel, leaving me to pay their shot! But at least they have gone. Tonight is the public ball in the pleasure garden.”
She blinked. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“I’m asking you to pose for me at the lily pond if the light is right.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Taking her courage in both hands—when had dealing with a mere man become so difficult?—she added, “Shall I see you before then?”
He smiled. “As much as you like. I may not be much company, but your presence delights me.”
It was fortunate, perhaps that they had to stand aside to allow two elderly ladies to pass them, for her entire body was flushing with delight of its own.
She let him work alone for an hour while she dealt with her correspondence and listened to the occasional hum of Basil and Mr. Flowers talking. Then she ordered coffee, left a cup for Mr. Flowers, and took two more upstairs to Stephen’s “studio.”
When she knocked, his distracted voice bade her enter. She doubted he even registered who had come in as she silently laid the coffee beside him, but a smile did flicker across his face as he worked.
She was tempted to peek at the canvas before him, for an impression at the corner of her eye caught the shape of his bed and a fold of red shawl, and she knew he was working on last night’s painting. The others scattered around him were all covered.
She took her own coffee and sat in the armchair. The quiet was rare and oddly soothing, and she loved to watch him work.
His paint-stained hand reached out and grasped the dainty cup. He drank with his critical gaze still on the canvas, then unexpectedly glanced up and caught her eyes. He smiled as if seeing her there was a surprise, and her heart gave its inevitable flutter.
“Thank you for the coffee. All is well?”
“Basil is wrestling with mathematics. It brought back unpleasant memories, so I vacated the room.”
“You struggled with mathematics?”
“No, I struggled with the teacher, who was my brother’s tutor, and saw no reason why a female should know such things.”
“I thought the Europeans were more enlightened than the English about educating women.”
“Not this European.”
His gaze dropped to her lips as she spoke and grew fixed. She wondered if he wanted to kiss her again, and then he returned to the painting, so presumably he had merely spotted some flaw in his work. She drank her coffee mostly in companionable silence, with only the odd conversational overture.
Once, she asked, “What do you want me to wear for tonight’s painting?”
“Something diaphanous,” he replied without thinking. “If you have nothing like that with you, anything will do…” He stepped back, examining what he had done, then set down the brush, covered the canvas, and moved to the next easel.
At last, she stood, collected his empty cup and saucer, and moved toward the door.
“Aline?”
She turned back.
“May I join you for luncheon?”
Gladness flooded her. “I’m taking Basil to the pleasure garden again, but you are very welcome to join us.”
“Then I shall find you there.”
The threat of Stephen’s unpleasant family might have gone, but Aline saw no reason to let down her guard. After all, she had come to the hotel for reasons that had nothing to do with Stephen. So, allowing Mr. Flowers his well-earned break, she summoned the footmen, who were well-versed in keeping a discreet watch on Basil’s safety.
Basil brought his paintings to show Mr. Dornan, who dully sauntered toward their table, once more in gentleman’s attire with only a few paint marks showing under his fingernails and a small spot of white in his hair that she itched to pick off for him.
Naturally, Basil thrust his pictures at him as soon as he had sat down. Waving aside Aline’s protests with a quick smile, he examined the drawings and paintings, which Aline thought were rather good for Basil’s age, though she was well aware of her own bias.
“These show definite promise,” Stephen said at last. “I like your imagination and the way you use colors is particularly good. You have your own style and a good eye.”
Basil beamed, and Aline could have kissed Stephen in front of everyone.
“Will you teach me more, sir?” Basil asked eagerly.
“Of course,” Stephen replied without hesitation.
Which made Aline uneasy. Promises made to children, even more than any other, had to be kept. She would be very glad to have Stephen in their lives for as long as he would stay. But after his portraits of her were done, she rather suspected he would be off to immerse himself in his next commission.
After they had eaten, they walked in the gardens. Stephen bought a ball from a stall that had just opened, and he and Basil played football on the grass. Mr. Flowers joined them for a more riotous game, and eventually so did two of the stilt walkers and Dennis, the footman. Aline looked on benignly, pleased and laughing.
Before long, other boys came to join in, and the men reduced their role to watch. Stephen came and stood beside her.
“It is good for him to play with other children,” she said. “I have hauled him around the world too much. He needs to settle and make friends.”
Stephen nodded.
“I thought he would have that when I married the prince. But the best-laid plans… We had to flee and for his own safety, I had to leave him with the Monteignes until I could rectify matters.”
“But you are settled now, are you not? In London.”
She nodded. “Providing there is a way to spike the Monteignes’ guns.”
“There is always a way,” he said vaguely.
Later, as on the previous afternoon, he painted her in his “studio,” and then moved to the painting of her and Basil. He had them discuss Basil’s drawings, with them spread out on the floor, while he watched with his steady, dark eyes and worked who knew what magic with his paint and his clever, delicate hands.
Leaving him to work on his own for a couple of hours, she took Basil back to their own rooms. Just as she put the key in the lock, some movement caught the corner of her eye and she spun around. No one was there.
“Did you see someone?” she asked Basil, hiding her unease.
“No. There’s no one there,” Basil assured her.
Perhaps her nerves were getting the better of her.
Chapter Eight
Stephen dined with Aline and Mr. Flowers, who then helped Stephen cart his easel and other equipment up to the lily pond. The weather remained dry, if a little cloudy, but, Stephen assured her on his return, the glow of the lanterns was spectacular, coming from all over the park, and he had not given up on a little starlight.
